I’m having a big fight with my sister but I don’t have to worry about her reading this because the fight was about her refusal to read my blog.

I don’t feel she’s obliged to read my blog. I’m just fascinated by her militant stance about not reading it. A couple of years ago, I realized that she hadn’t read something I thought she would enjoy, and asked why she didn’t read it.

She said, “I already know you in real life. So I don’t need to read it!” She sounded really annoyed. My husband still thinks this is funny, and he likes to say stuff like, “Did Bob Dylan’s brother say that, when Bob wanted to play him a song?”

So, I’m not Bob Dylan, but it might be a useful analogy because it implies an inexplicable resistance and an absurd excuse for it.

But, unbelievably, it came up again last week when my sister wanted to list words we hate, and I said, “Oh, guess what, I just wrote a thing about that on my blog! Go look, it’s a great list.”

God I am stupid.

She wouldn’t look and said derisively, “I didn’t realize I had to read it NOW.” Reflexively, I asked, “Can you tell me again why you have this fatwa against reading my shit?”

This was texting, by the way. She changed the subject, leaving my question hanging there. Now I really wanted an answer, not least because she was withholding one. I kept repeating the question, and she would write back, “I have a stomach ache.” “I need to lie down.” I asked, “Please just finish this sentence: I will not read my sister’s blog because”.

Now she texted, “Please stop”. It reminded me of that Beverly Hills housewife who winds up a fellow housewife and then shrieks, “Staahp!”

I wouldn’t stop. I called her passive aggressive. Eventually, she announces that she received an email from a family member, that was about me.  I didn’t believe this for a moment, so I asked to see it. She said, No, I don’t have to show it to you.

I called her and offered her $500 to show the nonexistent email to me. When she refused, I offered $1,000, and she still refused! Now I was laughing hysterically. I called her a  pathological liar and advised getting professional help.

So we aren’t talking. I could apologize for insisting on a question she was not equipped to answer. We could go back to our close relationship, and wait for the next bitter conflict.

I wish I could stop trying to get answers from people! No matter how badly you want one, no matter how desperately you try to get one, there is only silence. Or a lie about an email. Or a defensive complaint about being expected to just be honest. People want to be how they are without having to justify behavior. Fair enough. Or not?

Most of the time, I know the answer but just want the person to acknowledge it. Then it becomes a harangue and oops, you are a monster because you won’t give up. In my heart, I believe that I’m willing to answer any question to the best of my ability. It is a feather in my fucking cap. Just try me!

But. A couple of weeks ago, I had a big fight with my wonderful husband (who will read this) when he referred to my hair as “brown.” I flew into a rage and demanded that he call it “blonde.” When he punted, I ran around the house going “BROWN? Brown! Really??”

I have been inside my house for way too long now. It’s too much. My three modes are boredom, anxiety, or wondering if I’m actually dead already. Actually no, that’s a lie, there is “TV Time” in the evening, when we smoke some weed and I enter the reality of Our Shows. If Netflix isn’t the only thing preventing the complete collapse of civilization, I will eat my hat, and yours too.

I decided to skip the new Caitlyn Jenner show because (1) I am just sick of her/him, and (2) I was busy watching my other Sunday shit as discussed only last week.

But upon reflection, I feel I should have my own Reality Show and of course, you should too!

Mine will be about My Journey. There will be laughter, tears, and whining, and then more tears. There will be a lot of yelling and cursing.

My family members will make appearances, nagging and berating me. My sister will bring her list of things she resents me for, like she did the last time we went out for coffee.

My gender will remain pretty stable throughout, but my mental state will be all over the fucking map.

Like I imagine Caitlyn did, I will invite you into my closet. I will grab a bunch of stuff and throw it across the room, announcing, “No more Bruce!” Or I can just moan, “Why did I spend money on this stupid shit?” as my husband wrings his hands in the background.

We will review the history of my hair, and we’ll wonder how long before I die of cancer from those ‘keratin’ treatments.

Fine, it sounds a little boring but in fact it will be mesmerizing, like Apocalypse Now crossed with Grey Gardens, only not. Maybe I can get a synopsis of every Caitlyn episode and just follow her/his lead. We can certainly talk about my tits and make-up and how fearlessly I insist on being Me.

I fucking love this. And it’s not just about me. It’s about everyone struggling with existence as an angry, self-involved shopping addict with mood swings who wants attention but doesn’t have a voice. Cunt or not.

I am truly blessed in the sister department. One of my sisters who lives in a Scandinavian country and who I will call “Clinique,” posted this on facebook:

[My daughter’s school-class is taking a trip to Poland and] will be visiting Auschwitz concentration camps. It should be an amazing, informative, and emotional trip.

I can’t even describe my reaction to this.

But I’ll focus on the word usage. When she writes ‘Auschwitz concentration camps’ does she mean, as opposed to the Auschwitz Bar and Grill or the Auschwitz Shopping Center?

Meanwhile,Tennis just sent a list of her services to the trust, which included a charge of $600 to prepare six checks.

My youngest sister is an anomaly in our family: she is a blond bombshell.  I didn’t meet her until she was 16. One night, she asked me to help with her geometry homework. I was excited to get the chance to act like a real big sister! But the geometry problems seemed to be written in Chinese. I was horrified that anyone was expected to understand that shit. I tried finding a tutorial online but it was way beyond my limited Girlie Brain.

When our dad’s health declined, I slept at his house and got to know my sister better. I already knew that our dad had won custody of her after  years of neglect and abuse by her mother. Being raised by a father in his 80’s must have been hard for her.

She told me abut the time her older sister, who I will call “Tennis,” read her diary when she was 14 and snitched to our dad. This caused a huge commotion, after which Tennis convinced our dad to put his daughter in a foster home.

Eventually, our dad changed his mind and let my little sister come home. When he was dying, she tenderly manicured his nails. He had always liked a good manicure, even a hundred years ago when I was a kid.

Now that our dad is gone, my little sister is on her own. Tennis and their brother, the Weightlifter, keep their distance from her. They don’t like responsibility.

I’m glad I had a chance to briefly bond with her. I think she’s a “survivor,” like I am apparently, often to my dismay. I hope so.